The tall, lean man, his face angular and almost gaunt, his eyes dark and world-weary, approached the bar. His jacket and pants were a nondescript brown, their many pockets filled with shapeless bulges that could mean almost anything on the Frontier. Only his boots stood out, not because they were new, but rather because they were so demonstrably old, obviously carefully tended yet unable to hold a polish.

“My name’s Cain,” said the newcomer. “You know that.”

“Well, it ain’t what they call you these days.”

“It’s what you’ll call me if you want my business,” replied Cain.

“But Black Orpheus, now, he’s got you all written up as the Songbird,” persisted Gentry.

“I don’t sing, I’m not a bird, and I don’t much care what some half-baked folksinger writes about me.”

Gentry shrugged. “Have it your way—and while we’re on the subject, what else’ll you have?”

“He’ll have Altairian rum, like me,” interjected Giles Sans Pitié.

“I will?” asked Cain, turning to him.

“My treat.” The bounty hunter held up his bottle. “Come on over to a table and join me, Sebastian Cain.”

Cain watched him walk across the room for a moment, then shrugged and followed him.

“I hear you had pretty good luck on Praeteep Four,” said Giles Sans Pitié when both men had seated themselves.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” replied Cain, leaning back comfortably on his chair. “I understand you didn’t do too badly yourself.”

“Not so. I had to cheat.”

“I don’t think I follow you.”

“I had to shoot the third one.” Giles Sans Pitié held up his steel fist. “I like to take them with this.” He paused. “Did your man give you much trouble?”

“Some,” said Cain noncommittally.

“Have to chase him far?”

“A bit.”

“You’re sure not the most expansive raconteur I’ve ever run across,” chuckled Giles Sans Pitié.

Cain shrugged. “Talk is cheap.”

“Not always. Suliman Hari offered me thirty thousand credits to let him live.”

“And?”

“I thanked him for his offer, explained that the price on his head was up to fifty thousand, and gave him a faceful of metal.”

“And of course you didn’t then take thirty thousand credits off his body without reporting it,” said Cain sardonically.

Giles Sans Pitié frowned. “The son of a bitch only had two thousand on him,” he growled righteously.

“I guess there’s just no honor among thieves.”

“None. I can’t get over the bastard lying to me!” He paused. “So tell me, Cain—who will you be going out after next?”

Cain smiled. “Professional secret. You know better than to ask.”

“True,” agreed Giles Sans Pitié. “But everyone’s allowed a breach of etiquette now and then. For example, you know better than to make a kill in the Praeteep system, but you did it anyway.”